


Fire and Embers

by Oshii



Category: Frontier (TV 2016)
Genre: 18th Century, F/M, Foreshadowing, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Historical Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Plague, Sickfic, Vomiting, good shit, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: Season 2 AU. Grace struggles to keep the Ale afloat in the wake of Declan's disappearance and Jonathan's ascension to Governor. Business contends as usual, until a plague ship docks at Fort James. Rumors of Harp's capture circulate throughout the garrison, and Grace decides to seek answers for herself. What she discovers is much more horrible than she could have anticipated. H/C, emeto, sick!Chesterfield, foreshadowing, and more to come.





	Fire and Embers

**Author's Note:**

> this may be completely unwarranted, but I'd like to dedicate this story to finaljoy, whose work, "fearsome", brought ME such joy that I was inspired to try my own hand at writing Grace/Chesterfield, with some emeto thrown in, because hey, that's what I do. Plot will attempt to unfold, and I will continue to stick to historical accuracy as much as possible. Enjoy!

 

The ale house swelled with the sounds of hearty laughter and clinking glasses. Mary and Imogen hustled to and fro, weaving between the drunk men crowding the front room, hoisting trays loaded with mugs and steaming bowls of homemade caribou stew. Behind the bar, industriously wiping at a puddle of spilled brandy, was Grace Emberly – _ne, Chesterfield,_ as the garrison had taken great delight in addressing her (much to her dismay).

“Damn,” Grace swore as she heard another tin mug hit the bar with an unmistakable slosh of liquid, knowing it was going to be a long and messy evening. The garrison had recently captured two of Harp’s men on their last perimeter scout, and evidently, cause for celebration was in order. The ale was packed, and was going to be for a while yet.

But what of Harp, she wondered? Surely the would have been even more uproar had Declan himself been taken into custody – and, just as surely, her newly-minted _husband_ would have taken great delight in rubbing it in her face.

“Ah,” said a familiar, gruff voice, and she looked up to see one of Chesterfield’s soldiers leering at her through drunken eyes and yellowed teeth. “Missus Chesterfield! Looking lovely this evenin’, Governess.”

Both loathed titles in one go. Grace inhaled firmly through her nose, forcing a tight smile. “Thank you,” she replied curtly, busying herself with the thoroughly soaked bar rag. “I see you’re all enjoying yourselves after your latest victory?”

The soldier grinned at that, nodding in agreement. “Aye, ma’am. That we are.” He picked up his mug and took a healthy swig, wiping his mouth grandly afterwards. “Damned fool brought ‘is men right to th’fortress gates! Was easy enough, no blood spilt.” He then chuckled, rough with phlegm and nasty with crude delight. “Well. None of ours, anyway.”

Grace felt her stomach twist sickeningly at those words, dread mingling with the familiar rising rage. _Michael?_ She thought. _Sokanon? Harp?_   He wouldn’t so readily let his men be captured without a solid plan in place. What the hell was he up to now?

“That’s good to hear,” she heard herself replying – smooth, rehearsed, cool as a cucumber. “The captives are still alive, then?”

“Aye,” the man repeated, nodding sagely and taking another swill, setting the mug down with a  heavy thunk. Ale droplets sloshed over the rim and onto the freshly wiped bar. “The governor’s got ‘em held for interrogation on Harp’s whereabouts.” He grinned again. “But I’m sure you’ll be ‘earin about it yourself, later.”

Grace took another breath, reached out, and grabbed the soldier’s mostly empty mug. She half-turned to fill it, utilizing duty as an excuse to avoid further conversation. “I’m sure I will, Sergeant. Take care, now.”

As soon as the man left, she caught Mary’s eye from across the room and beckoned her with a sharp tilt of her finger. “Ask for details,” she urged the girl, low and conspiratorial. “I’m sure they’re being held in the magazine. Harp has a plan, he must, and I want to find out what lies in store for his men. Find out if it’s Michael and the others.”

Mary nodded, adjusting her grip on a stack of empty bowls. “I’ll ask about an Irishman in fort custody.”

“Why not just ask him yourself?” Came Imogen’s voice to her right. She was grabbing freshly scrubbed mugs from the shelf behind the bar, glancing over at Grace. “Governor Chesterfield would be only too happy to revel in victory with his new wife, I’m sure of it.”

Grace turned sharply and was about to retort in kind when another male voice cut her off, loud with authority and rising above the clattering din.

“The Governor’s laid up wi’ fever, m’lady,” said the red-coated English soldier, fully upright and evidently possessive of sound mind. Apparently, he was still on duty. “He sent me t’inform you and to say that he requires your services at home.”

“Jesus Christ,” Grace muttered, throwing down her bar rag and turning toward this man. She was sweating, and irritated, and so over this ass-kissing, _Missus Chesterfield_ horseshit. “Fever from what? Standing out in the cold too long, stroking his cock in front of his captives, waxing poetic about the solemnity of duty?”

“Grace,” murmured Mary, a hushed reminder. _The plan, don’t jeopardize yourself now!_

“Begging your pardon, ma’am?” The soldier furrowed his brow, studying her impetuously.

_Focus,_ Grace told herself, trying to calm her nerves, shaking with sharp anger. _Just calm down._

“Never mind,” she assured the solider in clipped tones. “Tell Governor Chesterfield I shall see to him later. We’re too busy for me to leave now, unless he wants to send me another barmaid on such short notice.”

The soldier hesitated briefly, obviously uncomfortable with leaving his master’s orders unfulfilled. “I’ll let ‘im know, ma’am” he finally replied. “But I don’t think he’ll be too happy about it.” He pronounced it _fink_ , an East-Ender. Grace thought of Chesterfield’s own low-born London drawl and shuddered briefly.

A clattering uproar rose from the heart of the dining room, where a pelt-swathed fur trapper had just lost a heated arm-wrestling match with a dark-coated Scottish laborer. Judging by the curses of defeat sworn by the trapper in swift French, he was on business from Montreal. One of Grant’s men, Grace was sure, and another ugly roll coiled through her stomach.

“Aye, take tha’, ye wee French bastard!” The Scot shouted gleefully, raising his ale in a toast. Several men cheered in encouragement, and mugs clanged together with alarming ferocity. Ale and brandy sloshed everywhere, and another man toppled backwards out of his chair, prompting another loud wave of guffaws and raucous cheering.

“Oh, dear,” Imogen muttered, collecting extra rags in anticipation.

Chesterfield’s messenger remained standing at the bar, eyeing Grace with wary speculation. She huffed an exasperated breath, pushed a lock of hair off her damp face, and met his gaze with one of her own, one not too kind, either.

“Well that’s my business to contend with, then, isn’t it?” She retorted. “You see what I have to deal with here.” She gestured broadly to the surrounding chaos, and the soldier did seem to take into consideration the fact that the proprietor of this ale house wouldn’t likely be leaving soon, whether or not her husband was on his sickbed.

“I see,” he acquiesced, and with a sniff, drew himself upright once more. “Evening, then, Governess.” And with a tilt of his hat, he turned and left the building, leaving Grace to her own resignation.

\--

In the frigid air, stillness blanketed the fort heavier than the freshly fallen snow. Breath, soundless, clouded.

Grace, shivering, her cheeks stinging, pulled her cloak closer as she made her way through the single winding path that led from the ale house to the outskirts of the fort. Not many souls were out and about this late, save for the sentries posted at guard at the far west wall, and the figureheads stationed at the entryway of the Governor’s two-story abode.

The home she now shared with Jonathan loomed before her, large and austere, parallel windowpanes illuminated by the torch lights that flickered on both sides of the doorway. The light should have provided relief, a promise of safety and comfort at her arrival home. Instead, Grace felt her chest tighten with preparatory dread, her defense already rising as she envisioned Chesterfield waiting for her, and the confrontation that would surely unfold.

_Oh, and he’s ill to boot,_ she remembered, the dread surging thickly through her veins. Chesterfield was petulant enough on a _good_ day – she shuddered to imagine how his countenance might present itself  after contending with fever and grippe all evening.

“Evening, Governess,” one of the guards greeted, stepping aside slightly at her approach. “Bit late to be walking alone. One of the men should have escorted you home.”

“That’s kind of you to offer,” Grace bit out between shivers, her breath misting in cold clouds. She was freezing, and her feet ached fearsomely. She just wanted to get inside and get warm, regardless of whom might be waiting for her when she got there. “But I’ve managed alone thus far."

The guards seemed to consider this, and they either found it to their approval or they just didn’t care, because no further commentary was offered, and Grace slipped past them and through the threshold into the house.

The door was shut behind her, and for a moment, she reveled in the simple pleasure of being indoors again. Her cheeks stung as warming blood rushed back to fill her frozen face. _All right, you bastard,_ she thought, mouth set in a taut, grim line as she rounded the corner into the drawing room. _Come out wherever you’re hiding. I know you’re there. And I know what you’re hiding in the magazine._

The fire was still lit, roaring in the hearth, the wood crackling splendidly within the flames. Heat poured out from the blaze, and Grace allowed herself a moment more of pleasure warming her hands before her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Jonathan had not appeared yet, which meant he had either given up the ghost and fallen asleep, or he was still plotting. Her demise, perhaps – or, worse, of those his men had taken into custody.

But, surely, if these captives had anything to do with Harp, Chesterfield would have been down at the ale house with bells on, unable to suppress his smug satisfaction at her dismay. No fever would have stopped that man’s irrepressible compulsion to gloat at his achievements, no matter how arbitrary or how cruel.

_Or,_ said the voice in her head, unbidden, _maybe it would have, if the fever was bad enough._

She recalled one of the trappers at the ale regaling his comrades with a repulsive tale of yellow fever among one of the First Nations tribes. The jaundice, and the bile, and the blood – of the way the natives had cried out in their mother tongues, senseless with fever, until no more sound came from their burning bodies. The French had ordered the corpses burned, to quell the risk of contamination, and the task was apparently carried out easily despite the absence of a priest to perform any last rites.

A chill swept through Grace, one that she was sure had not come from any draft.

She left her spot in front of the fire to ascend the staircase, heading for the guest bedroom. Jonathan had relented with a sneer when she asked to sleep there, “until she got her bearings”, and Grace supposed it was due to his own contrived surety of temptation that he allowed this transgression on the sanctity of their marriage. _In due time, love,_ he’d said, blue eyes boring into hers with insidious intent. _You’ll be mine._

A sudden and awful clamor broke through her thoughts, and Grace froze where she stood – outside the governor’s bedchamber, her heart pounding. She heard struggled gasps for air, and cringed at the unmistakable sound of liquid retching echoing into a hollow pot.

“Oh, Christ,” she groaned aloud, her skin crawling at the notion of the nightmare she was about to endure.

Jonathan _was_ sick, and despite her secret, seething contempt for him - despite _every fucking thing_ he had said to her these past few days – she still felt sympathy twist her heart, and to her dismay, she realized it would not be possible to simply walk past his bedroom. _Damn you, Chesterfield,_ echoed the now-familiar mantra inside her seething head, as she crossed the threshold into the dark bedchamber.

Candlelight flickered against the walls, and the acrid tinge of bile hung thickly in the air. Chesterfield lay half-sprawled over the edge of the bed, cradling a basin beneath his chin. Between labored breaths, he raised his head to search for her, eyes swollen and shining with wetness.

 “ _Grace_ ,” he grated desperately, clutching the bowl, his wild and fevered gaze begging for deliverance.

Grace’s heart skipped a beat, eyes widening at his incapacitation.

She strode purposefully past the threshold and lowered herself onto the bed, so she could sit beside him. She reached out to support the basin, knowing he was weak from vomiting, and her other hand, God help her, began rubbing soft circles on his bare back. His skin was hot to the touch, and tacky with sweat, and she felt the rising shudder of his trembling breaths as he struggled for control over the nausea.

“Easy, Jonathan,” she murmured, keeping hold of both him and the basin. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

He closed his eyes, expression grotesque, and for a moment she thought he might spit out a scathing retort, but instead he abruptly lurched forward, coughed, and heaved up another rough and bilious tide of vomit.

“Fuck,” he croaked, and spat into the basin before flopping back onto the pillows, panting heavily, completely drained from his efforts.

Grace carefully bent over to place the basin on the floor, swallowing her own revulsion at its contents. “There you go,” she told him, reaching out to brush the hair from his forehead. “Lie still.”

Leaving him to catch his breath, Grace got up and retrieved the washbasin from the stand in the corner, dunking the cloth and wringing it out before setting to work. He arched his neck and craned away from the cold rag, but she persisted, and eventually he was soothed by her ministrations, stilling and allowing her to sponge the heat from his face, his neck, his chest.

“Grace…” he murmured, again, blindly seeking her touch like an infant searching for its mother’s breast.

_He’s weak,_ hissed a small and sharp part of her mind, the part that operated on logic. _Take advantage of that. Press him now, while he’s helpless to your whims. Find out what happened._

“How’s this?” She asked instead, keeping the cloth held on his forehead, where he seemed to like it best. “Have you been able to keep down any liquids?"

He took a few soft breaths, eyes still closed, but he was not laboring as much anymore. Finally, he spoke. “What do you think?” was his grunted reply, ( _fink_ , again, like the soldier at the ale) and he moaned lowly, reaching up to settle a hand over his stomach. “Bloody _hell_ …”

“I hope you’re not takin’ that damned calomel,” she admonished, stricken suddenly by the thought. “Further purgin’s no likely t’do you any good. You’re dried up like a prune as is.”

She had to abruptly lift her arm in surprise when – again - he suddenly and ferociously twisted over the edge of the bed to be sick. Vomit splattered into the chamber pot and onto the floorboards, and Grace saw with a gasp of revulsion that it was dark with blood.

“Jesus Christ!” She swore, eyes bulging at the sight.

He struggled, attempting to push himself upright, his arms shaking too badly to bear his weight. A strangled groan escaped his lips, and he drooled over the edge of the bed, stomach still convulsing uselessly. Grace reached for him, holding him still in her grip.

“Stop!” She cried. “You’ll fall over, and I’m no picking you out of that mess!”

“Just… fucking leave me,” he panted, voice rough and croaking, his chin stained with blood.

Anger surged through her, and she shoved him back onto the pillows, her own forehead beginning to blister with fresh beads of sweat.

“You thick-headed, stubborn _ass_ ,” she growled, and relished viciously in the way his feverish blue eyes widened at her insolence. Wringing out the cloth, she hovered over him menacingly, brandishing it like an instrument of torture. “D’you think I _wanted_ t’come home to this? To wiping your brow and cleaning up your _vomit_? I’ve already been mopping up shite all night at the ale!”

He panted heavily, struggling to swallow through a scorched throat. “Grace, I—”

“Hush,” she admonished, setting to work sponging his burning flesh once more, the process more methodical than sympathetic this time. “I’m performing my wifely duties, am I no?”

Silenced into submission, or perhaps tempered by illness, Jonathan lay still and refrained from speaking. He allowed Grace to tend to him, pliant as a corpse beneath her capable hands and that damned washcloth.

For a while, it seemed he had drifted off into sleep, and Grace relinquished the rag with a  weary sigh.

“’s not Harp,” came the raspy whisper in the silent bedroom.

Grace pivoted, watching Chesterfield carefully, inspecting his haggard face for any signs of betrayal. Defeated as he was, she doubted he had any reason to lie to her now. “What are you talking about?”

He took a breath, summoning enough strength to peer at her through slitted eyes. “Don’t play dumb…know you’ve heard by now.” He winced, suddenly, bringing a hand back up to his belly. “’s not him we apprehended.”

Grace paused, her whole body going completely stiff. A tingling surge of relief swept through her, fueled by the frantic hammering of her heart in her ribcage. She sniffed, slipping on aloofness with practiced ease. “And what makes you think I care?”

He had to take a few moments as a vicious cramp seized him; the pestilence seared through him with alacrity, and in her presence, he allowed himself to submit to the misery. A grating groan escaped his lips, pulled back into a grimace as he clutched his stomach and twisted beneath the sweat-soaked sheets.

“Shh, easy,” Grace coached, reaching for him. Her hand landed over his, braced on his middle. “Breathe”.

Through the staggered breaths Jonathan forced, the pain seemed to ease, and slowly he sighed with relief. When he settled back onto the pillows, Grace caught a better glimpse of him in the candlelight, and had to bite her lips to keep from crying out.

Rose-colored splotches decorated his abdomen, where her hand had just been. It was unlike any rash she’d seen before, and her initial reaction was alarm. What if this was some new disease, brought by the French? God knows Jonathan and his crew weren’t strongly favored by either of the rival companies on the Bay.

“Jonathan,” she began, voice quite low and steady. “Where _exactly_ did you capture this prisoner?”

He swallowed thickly, as if summoning the strength to speak. Pale and sweating as he was in the dim light, Chesterfield painted quite the piteous picture – one he’d have to be near death indeed to allow, she thought.

“Docks,” he breathed, barely audible. “Privateers, come to raid furs…flyin’ the Portuguese flag.”

Portugal? Grace’s brow furrowed as she tried to picture what business they might have had at Fort James. “An English ally, come to raid Company furs?” She echoed. “What sort of sense does tha- _Jonathan!_ ”

She rose to her feet, skirt whirling, and bore down on him. “You _idiot!_ They were trying to _warn_ you!”

At this level of indecency, Chesterfield did open his eyes, but could not raise his head from the pillow. “Grace,” he murmured, and even through the illness, a soft warning growl slid into his tone. “Be careful.”

She huffed a short, incredulous laugh, folding her arms. “Or what? You’ll stand up and throttle me? Bend me over your knee and have me whipped?” She shook her head and _tut_ ted at his audacity. “I suppose you’ve already ordered those men hanged?”

It was then Grace realized just how strikingly blue Chesterfield’s eyes were, as he suddenly leveled her with an improbable, full-strength glare. Deep set in his pallid face, the effect was even more menacing.

“D’you think me a complete fool?” It must have taken an enormous amount of strength to grate that out; she noted beneath her astonishment that his chin trembled slightly. “I ordered them interrogated first.”

Grace remained standing, arms folded, unimpressed. “I forgot you did retain some of Benton’s craftiness,” she noted dryly. “And what might these prisoners have said in their own defense? What of Montreal, then?”

As surprising as the full glare had been, Grace surely did not expect the weak chuckle he gave in response. “Doesn’t matter,” he replied, voice even softer than before. “They’re good as dead anyway."

At that, she pressed her mouth into a taut line, anger bristling once again. “How can you say that, Jonathan? How can you be so callous? Those men have committed no crime against the Fort!”

Silence hovered thickly between them for a few moments, leaving her to fume and him to compose himself.

“You didn’t see ‘em, Grace,” he nearly whispered, lips cracked. “They were gone long before docking.”

“The whole crew?” She, too, softened her tone as the weight of his implications settled in. “An epidemic?"

He was quite still, his strength rapidly waning with each breath. “We took three,” he told her, “everyone else onboard was dead. Bled dry from the inside out. Some of ‘em were deserters. I knew a couple faces.”

Grace’s heart picked up speed as she attempted to digest all this detail at once. “Any of your men?”

Another stretch of silence, this time so long she was sure he’d passed out entirely from exhaustion.

When he finally did speak again, Grace would never forget the jolt of shock that it shot through her. 

“My little brother,” he all but mouthed, chin trembling again. “Billy.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) I am aware that yellow fever was an illness more typically seen in the southern United States and tropical areas, as it is a mosquito-borne infection (barring the 1793-94 outbreaks in Philadelphia and Baltimore). However, because mosquitoes and their eggs could fester within water barrels aboard transatlantic trade ships - ones that frequented ports along the eastern seaboard of the U.S. colonies - it did not seem beyond comprehension that a trade ship venturing further north could possibly have carried the infection to Montreal, where it would then perhaps spread among First Nations tribes. 
> 
> 2.) While Portugal was (and still is, to my knowledge) an English ally, the presence of a completely unanticipated vessel docking at Fort James, flying the Portuguese flag, would still have warranted some investigation and detainment by the local garrison, in my opinion. Also, the capture of the sick sailors seems canon, as Chesterfield would totally feel the need to assert his new dominance as Governor by pulling such a stunt. He's done much worse on the show. 
> 
> Please feel free to correct any other mistakes I may have made in this chapter. While this show is more about the drama, I do LOVE period pieces, and I enjoy researching and trying to stick to historical accuracy as much as possible!


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